Абрахам Меррит - The Ship of Ishtar

"Sharane!" he called, forgetting; and again—"Sharane!"

She glided through the opened ranks of the men–at–arms kneeling to her as she passed. Straight to the altar she paced and stood silent, motionless beside the Priest of Bel.

There was a louder rolling of the metallic thunder. As it died away the priest turned to the altar, lifted his hands high. From his attendants droned a long, sustained humming upon a single deep note. Up and out swept the priest's arms; seven times he bowed low before the crimson flame. He stood upright. Down upon their knees dropped archers and spearmen; with a rustling of bows, a muffled beating of spear shafts.

Still to that weird humming the Priest of Bel began his invocation:

"Oh merciful among the gods! O bullnecked among the gods! Bel Merodach, king of the heavens and the worlds! Heavens and earths are thine! Breather of life art thou! Thy house is prepared for thee! We worship and await."

Kenton heard a whisper—tremulous, golden—"I worship and await!"

Sharane's voice! The golden voice of Sharane playing upon every taut nerve of him like myriads of little fingers over stretched harp strings!

Again the Priest of Bel:

"O begetter! O self–begotten! O beautiful one who givest life to the babe! O merciful one who givest life to the dead! King art thou of Ezida! Lord of Emakhtila! A resting place for the King of Heaven is thy house! A resting place for the Lord of Worlds is thy house! We worship and await thee!"

And once more Sharane—tremulous—"I worship and await Thee!" The priest intoned:

"Lord of the Silent Weapon! Look favorably on thy house, O Lord of Rest! May Ezida speak peace to thee in thy house! May Emakhtila speak rest to thee in thy house! We worship and await thee!"

And again Sharane: "I worship and await Thee!" Now Kenton saw the priest make toward the altar a gesture in which lurked an inexplicable defiance. He turned and faced Sharane. His voice rang loudly, jubilantly:

"Full of delight is thy supremacy! Opener of the lock of morning art thou! Opener of the lock of evening art thou! To open the lock of the Heavens is thy supremacy! I worship and await thee!"

At the first words the humming of the priests ceased; Kenton saw them stir, glance at each other uncertainly; saw a ripple pass through kneeling soldiers and worshippers as their heads raised; heard murmuring, astonished, uneasy.

Beneath him the kneeling Assyrian muttered: "That was not in the ritual!"

The Persian asked: "What was not in the ritual?"

The woman said: "That the priest cried last. It is not Bel's. It belongs to Our Lady Ishtar!"

The youth whispered: "Yes! Yes—he knows her too! She is Ishtar!"

The woman with the babe sobbed: "Did you see the Kerubs stretch their claws? I am frightened. I am frightened, and it is not good for the child's milk. The light on the altar is like spilled blood!"

Said the Assyrian, uneasily: "I do not like it! It was not of Bel's ritual! And the storm is coming fast!"

Narada arose, abruptly. Her handmaids bent over drums and harps; set their pipes to lips. A soft and amorous theme beat up from them, delicate, clinging—like the beating of the wings of countless doves, the clinging of countless little soft arms, the throbbing of countless little rosy hearts. Under it the body of Narada swayed like a green reed at the first touch of roving winds of spring. The multitude looked, sighed once and was still.

But Kenton saw that the priest's eyes never left Sharane, standing like a woman asleep beneath her veils.

Louder the music sounded; quicker, throbbing with all love longing, laden with all passion; hot as the simoon. To it, as though her body drank in each calling, imperious note, turned it into motion, made it articulate in flesh, Narada began to dance.

In the midnight eyes that had been so sorrowful, many little leaping joyous stars danced. The scarlet mouth was a luring, honey–sweet flame promising unknown raptures; and the swarms of golden butterflies meshed within her gossamer nets of jet hovered, swept down, clung to and caressed the rose and pearl of her body as though she were some wondrous flower. They were clouds of golden butterflies darting upon her, covering with kisses all her loveliness, gleaming within the cloudy nets that swirled about her, yet hiding no single exquisite contour. Maddening, breathless, grew dance and music, and in music and dance Kenton watched mating stars, embracing suns, moons swollen with birth. Gathered in them he sensed all passion, all desire of all women under stars and suns and moons…

The music slowed, softened; the dancer was still; from all the multitude a soft sighing arose. He heard Zubran, his voice hoarse:

"Who is that dancer? She is like a flame! She is like the flame that dances before Ormuzd on the Altar of Ten Thousand Sacrifices!"

The woman jealously: "She danced the wooing of Bel by Ishtar. She has danced it many times. Nothing new in that."

The Phrygian said, maliciously: "He asked who she is?" The woman said, spitefully: "Gods! That dance is no new thing, I tell you. Many women have danced it."

The Assyrian said: "She is Narada. She belongs to Bel."

The Persian said wrathfully: "Are all the fair women in this country Bel's? By the Nine Hells—Cyrus the King would have given ten talents of gold for her!"

"Hush!" whimpered the Assyrian; and the other two echoed him—"Hush!"

Narada had begun once more to dance. The music grew louder. But now it was languorous; dripping sweetness; distilling the very dew of desire.

The blood hammered hot in Kenton's veins―"She dances the surrender of Ishtar to Bell" It was the Assyrian, gloating.

The Persian stood upright.

"Aie!" he cried. "Cyrus would have given fifty talents of gold for her! She is a flame!" cried Zubran, and his voice was thick, clogged. "And if she is Bel's—why then does she look so upon the priest?"

None heard him in the roaring of the multitude; soldiers and worshippers, none of them had eyes or ears for anything but the dancer.

Nor had Kenton!

Then witchery of the midnight woman was gone; raging at himself he beat against the stone. For the tranquillity of Sharane had broken. Her white hand thrust aside the shrouding purple folds. She turned; moved swiftly away toward that hidden entrance from which she had come.

The dancer stopped; the music died; again came the uneasy movement of the multitude; a louder murmuring.

"That was not in the ritual!" The Assyrian sprang to his feet. "The dance is not yet finished."

There was a clashing of thunder almost overhead.

"She grows impatient for the god," the woman said, cynically.

"She is Ishtar! She is the moon hiding her face behind a little cloud!" The youth took a step toward the men–at–arms guarding the priestess.

The bold–eyed woman arose, caught his arm; spoke to the soldiers.

"He is mad! He lives at my house. Do not hurt him! I will take him away!"

But the youth broke away from her; thrust her aside. He darted through the guards and raced across the square to meet the advancing priestess. He threw himself at her hurrying feet. He hid his face in the hem of her cloak.

She paused, regarding him through her veils. Instantly Bel's priest was at her side. He thrust a foot against the youth's face; sent him rolling a yard away.

"Ho! Alrac! Druchar! Take this man!" he shouted. Two officers came running to him, swords drawn; the attendant priests clustered, whispering; all the multitude was silent.

The youth twisted, sprang upon his feet, faced the priestess.

"Ishtar!" he cried. "Show me your face. Then let me die!"

She stood silent, as though she neither heard nor saw. The soldiers seized him, drew back his arms. And then, visibly, strength flowed into the youth's slight frame. He seemed to expand, to grow in height. He threw the soldiers from him; he struck the Priest of Bel across the eyes. He gripped the veils of the priestess.